


Of Dust and Ashes

by truethingsproved



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo, The Sandman (Comics)
Genre: Crossover, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-07
Updated: 2013-03-07
Packaged: 2017-12-04 14:35:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/711818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/truethingsproved/pseuds/truethingsproved
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They fade, slowly at first, then faster, and she wonders where they’ll go after this.</p><p>She doesn’t know. She’s only Death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Dust and Ashes

Death gets overworked. Sometimes, she gets outright _exhausted._ Collecting people to bring them to the other side is tiring and draining in a thousand different ways, but bringing people over like this, in massive groups, writhing and begging for mercy—as if it was hers to give—it’s too much sometimes.

Sometimes she just really needs a break.

So when she sees the man with the mess of inky curls lounging with a bottle in his hand, not crying or pleading or screaming, she approaches him first.

“Hello,” he says, greeting her with all the familiarity of old friends, and despite herself, she smiles.

“Hello,” she says back, conversationally, and she holds a hand out to him.

He looks first at the hand, then at her eyes, hollow and dark and made of something like mist. “That’s it?”

“It doesn’t look like I need to convince you.”

“Could I ask for a favor?” She’s about to sigh, exasperated and annoyed, when he points to a blond man standing not far away, blood staining his shirt, a flag lying limp in his hand, ravaged just like his beautiful and otherwise unmarked body.

Shot through eight times, one after another after another, and she looks at the dark-haired thing before her who watches him as if in awe.

“Let me just make sure he gets there alright,” he requests, his voice and eyes soft, and just because she’s Death doesn’t mean she’s unreasonable. She let the girl from before wait for her brother; she can let this cynic watch his god.

She is inspired, though, because she _is_ Death, after all. “Give me your hand. I won’t take you just yet,” she promises, and the look he gives her is one of amusement, and she thinks that maybe they could be friends. Taking her hand, he stands, and then his lips part and something dark and smoky rushes between them.

“I’ll let you be the one to take him,” she says when he closes his mouth and stares at her, awed.

He could weep. He might anyway. Instead, he lets her walk him to the one he’d pointed out before; they exchange a single look before he holds his hand out and says, softly, “Do you permit it?” as if to echo something said before.

The golden-haired boy’s lips curl into a smile and without waiting for the outstretched hand to take he steps forward and curls his long and pale hands around this temporary new face for Death. A pause, then they kiss, as if made for this, made for nothing else, made to exist as one.

They fade, slowly at first, then faster as the new Reaper grips him tightly in his arms, and she wonders where they’ll go after this.

She doesn’t know. She’s only Death.

She spares another moment to reflect on the love in this place before she goes to collect the rest of her flock.


End file.
